


Stranger Than You Know

by EeveebethFejvu



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, No Dishonored 2 Spoilers, Other, strange!Jessamine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7361464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveebethFejvu/pseuds/EeveebethFejvu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born of royal parentage, gifted with great intelligence, and raised to rule a vast and prospering empire, Jessamine Kaldwin would never have been considered an ordinary person. But there is something especially odd about the heir to the throne, something uncanny and mysterious, there in the lurking darkness behind her eyes and in the eerie truths that spill forth from her lips. Jessamine Kaldwin is many things – daughter, friend, lover, mother, empress – but normal she is not, and the secrets that lie within her heart shape the world and the lives of those around her in ways beyond all human comprehension.</p><p>This is the birth, life, and death of Jessamine Kaldwin, who was stranger than anyone ever knew.</p><p>[No Dishonored 2 Spoilers.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1805

**“The old Empress… She was a strange one. Stranger, I think, than you ever knew.”**

\- Anton Sokolov to Corvo Attano, “The Loyalists,” _Dishonored_

 

 

 

Before she had gone into labor, Beatrix had managed to slip the whalebone charm inside her pillowcase. She could feel its hard, three-pronged form pressing into her skull as her head thumped back into the cushion and she screamed.

 

<<<<–O–>>>>

 

The child should have been born a week ago, according to Royal Physician Calloway’s calculations.

The child should have been born in the waning days of the Month of Songs, right after the recess of Parliament for the year. It was an ideal window of time, with Euhorn finally free from the most pressing of his political obligations. Free to sit by her bedside and hold her hand through the ordeal, free to stroke damp locks of sable hair out of her eyes, free to gently cradle their most precious firstborn in his waiting arms.

For months in advance, the Kaldwin estate out near Potterstead had been lavishly prepared for their arrival. A new nursery had been outfitted in bright teal-and-gold in the room Beatrix loved best, the one with the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the grassy knolls, the wide blue lake, and the pristine white swans gliding peacefully across its shimmering surface. The child’s first weeks were to be spent in this lush summer paradise, the ancestral home of the Kaldwins, far away from the reckless euphoria and depravity that shook the streets of Dunwall this time of year.

And there she, Euhorn, and the child would stay until their triumphant return to the Tower in the third week of Earth. Beatrix had imagined it countless times: the city’s citizens lining the streets, cheering and waving and shouting in excitement, throwing wreaths of sweet flowers onto the cobblestones in front of the carriage. Their jubilant adoration would barely be kept in check by Royal Protector Reese and his guardsmen as the crowd surged forward, eager to wrap the imperial family in warm arms of veneration.

It was not an unrealistic fantasy. Euhorn’s coronation procession two years previous had been a celebration the likes of which Dunwall had never before seen. How could its people welcome the newborn heir to the Empire with anything less?

But the last days of Songs had come and gone without any sign of the child’s imminent arrival, and with each passing hour, Beatrix had felt her anxiety increase. Euhorn’s sharp, militaristic pacing around his office had only agitated her nerves, and the constant presence of Calloway – hovering nearby in preparation even as he cowered in ill-concealed unease – nearly sent her into hysterics. The due date passed. Their long-planned retreat to the estate was delayed, then delayed again, then put off indefinitely. As the year’s end crept ever closer, Beatrix’s hands had begun to glide compulsively over her swollen stomach, long fingernails catching against the silky satin of her blouse as if threatening to drag the child out by force if necessary.

When the Abbey’s bells finally began to toll, deep and booming and ominous as cannon fire, Beatrix left the Tower. She stood in the middle of the courtyard’s gazebo – newly built to commemorate the impending royal birth – and gazed out over the Wrenhaven at the glow of torchlight and bonfires on the opposite shore. She was lightheaded and shivery with fear. The sun had set for the last time on 1804, but the new year had yet to begin, and only the Abbey knew when this dark night of the soul would draw to a close.

An hour later, a piercing pain seized her, like a sharp-bladed knife lodged deep in her gut. She ignored it – and the stabs of agony that followed – with deliberate and unfaltering concentration, staring out at the distant flickers of revelry even as the blood drained from her stony face and she swayed on swollen feet.

Four hours into the Fugue, her water broke.

Beatrix had finally screamed then, the heart-wrenching, unearthly lament of a ghostly wraith, a witch aflame, a dying whale. Clutching at her stomach, fluid streaming down her legs, she had fallen heavily to her knees, and as Euhorn, Reese, and Calloway had come running, their footfalls echoing on the pale stone floor, she had keened and pleaded brokenly into the night for the child to not be born.

Not now. Not yet.  

She did not remember the journey to her and Euhorn’s bedroom suite, nor did she remember being changed into her loose white nightgown. And she did not remember slipping the bone charm into her pillowcase, though she must have managed it by some miracle without her husband, the protector, the physician, or the three remaining house servants in the Tower noticing. She stared dazedly up at the canopy over the bed, her eyes gazing through and beyond the heavy drapery, and felt the charm slip slowly down until one jagged end was pressed into the soft flesh at the base of her skull.

Beatrix was by no means a heretic. Though not as devout as she publically displayed, she did believe in the Strictures and tried to follow the Abbey’s sensible guidelines in everyday life. The little whalebone carving, though, had been a family heirloom of sorts, passed down through the generations from her mother to herself when she had come of age. The Blaynes were hardly alone amongst the nobility in their possession of banned ancient artifacts, if the occasional whispered rumors were to be believed, though if the Kaldwins retained any such items, Euhorn had never shared knowledge of it with her.

And Beatrix had never felt much more than a brief, amused thrill when pondering the charm before tucking it away in its nondescript drawstring pouch and hiding it in a locked side drawer. Every now and then – when Pandyssian expeditions would arrive in Dunwall with new tales of exotic witchcraft or she would overhear some chatty maids swapping ghost stories – Beatrix’s mind would return to the bone charm. She would wonder about its origins, about what poor primitive savage had carved it countless ages ago and why, and whether or not it truly held the potential for producing dark magic. Sometimes, when she was at her most weary or whimsical or the shining moon was full, she had thought she could almost sense it calling to her, feel it pulling her in like the tide, singing to her like the leviathans of the sea.

She had not given any thought to the bone charm for months, too wrapped up in fretting about the coming child to think of much else, but as Beatrix had watched that shadow play of wild humanity gorging itself on chaos unchecked, her body wracked with stabbing pains, the call of the little carving had come upon her. At first, it was merely a soundless tickle in the back of her mind, a mostly unconscious compulsion, but it had quickly crescendoed into a pounding, sizzling roar, the crash of storm-tossed waves against a jagged cliff and the beating of ancient drums, until she had felt nearly deafened by its pulse.

The charm throbbed against her skull now like a beating heart, drowning out her screams.

So she did not notice when Euhorn sat on the edge of the bed and clutched her pale hands in his shaking grasp. She did not notice Calloway darting about – his usual competence having returned now that his moment had arrived – nor the servants rushing in and out of the room. She did not hear the physician shouting at Reese for hot water and towels or the occasional nervous invocation of Stricture from the head housekeeper. She did not even hear Euhorn’s voice, normally so deep and strong but trembling like a leaf now, trying to comfort her and let his _darling_ , his _beloved_ , his _most_ _precious_ _Beatrix_ know that he was here, that it would be all right, it did not matter that the child was coming now, he was not angry with her, it was not her fault, everything would be fine, she would be fine, the baby would be fine…

Beatrix screamed and stared up at the canopy and, wide-eyed and unblinking, saw into the endless forever.

 

<<<<–O–>>>>

 

All was fragmented, shattered like a thousand suspended broken windows, fragmented and floating in a watery sea of blue sky. But it was a sea of sky with no solid ground with which to orient the self. In all directions, there was only an absence, a hungry and gaping hole of vast blue nothingness shining in the slippery pale light of a nonexistent sun.

Within the absence, however, Beatrix caught flashes, glimpses of things she did not understand, of people she did not know, of places she had never been. Like the forever, the flashes seemed of all times and all spaces, and as they spun past her eyes in a parade of disjointed tableaux, she was only able to latch onto a few of the vague, infinite impressions.

_A horseless carriage rumbling past on a sparking rail. Glowing flowers climbing the broken rafters of a dilapidated mansion. Soldiers and laymen fighting and dying in a distant boggy swamp. Two black-haired girls meandering along a rocky shoreline. Red-capped glass tanks of a shimmery, iridescent substance. Rats scurrying unnoticed between the feet of masked aristocracy. A man in red straightening the fighting stance of a dark-skinned girl. A hoard of strange fish with quills launching themselves at screaming sailors. A little girl drawing a picture in a dim room with scarlet curtains. A beautiful young lady refusing the hand of a pleading king. An old man with sorrow in his eyes as he tips poison into a glass. A dusky-skinned young guardsman kneeling before a girl as she touched his shoulders with the flat of an ornamental sword. A whale moaning its death song on the hooks. The gazebo, where she had stood only a minute, an hour, a day, a lifetime ago, teal-and-gold banners flapping in the salty breeze of a bright clear day, its marble floor drenched in dark, sticky red blood._

And amongst these things, a smooth, lilting voice whispered in her ear.

“ _Beatrix Blayne Kaldwin_. Wife of Euhorn Kaldwin, Emperor of the Isles and first of his name. One might say ‘what a surprise,’ but –” a huff of cool breath brushed against her feverish skin “– I was quite certain I would see you here tonight.”

Suspended in and between her bed and the nothingness, eyes filled simultaneously with canopy and eternity, Beatrix failed to force her numb lips to move and was distantly surprised to hear her own voice answer regardless. “Please. Oh, _please_.”

“‘Please’?” The voice sounded amused. “‘Please’ what? Take away the pain, the agony? My dear Beatrix–”

“Please… don’t let it… Don’t let the child be born…” Beatrix inhaled deeply, rasping; far away her body wracked with panicked, shaking sobs. “Not yet. Not yet. Not now.”

A faint burble of noise and sensation from the bedroom reached her senses, but it was incomprehensible and unreal, like a sound heard underwater. Then the voice spoke, still young and smooth and unconcerned.

“‘Not now’? Not now during the Fugue, you mean? Not now in the in-between hours, in this time-that-does-not-exist, this time-not-recorded? Not now in the outside-time…?” The voice murmured low and threateningly in her ear. “ _My_ time?”

Beatrix shuddered and tried to wrench away, but the ethereal presence was tucked in close behind her and Euhorn and Calloway were hovering above her, hands gesturing and calling to her, speaking some sort of encouragement or instruction. “ _No,_ ” she whined, straining against the throbbing pressure in her body and the voice’s chilling words. “Not now, not now! No no no no _no!_ ”

“How predictable,” the voice said, with an approximation of a human’s disappointed sigh. “Always the denial, the praying, the imploring and ranting. Every year, it is always the same. Did you know? Right now in Caulkenny, a homeless woman is curled up in an alleyway, abandoned and alone as they dance and sing in the streets, pleading and crying out _‘not yet!’_ And there is a courtesan in Cullero, a housewife in Samara, and in Fraeport, and in Yaro, and far across the sea. You are just the same. What would your people think, I wonder? What would your Dunwall, your Isles, your husband _think_ if they knew their beautiful, young empress consort was begging like a self-professed infidel at my shrine?”

“ _Please!”_ Beatrix screamed into the blue nothingness. Pain like she had never known shook her, body and soul, and she writhed like a dying rat in the jaws of a vicious wolfhound. _“Please!_ Oh, please, have mercy! Stop it from coming now, please! _Make it stop!_ ”

“You know better than this, Beatrix,” the voice said, chiding, and she could actually _feel_ the smile curled on his cool, chapped lips. “Everyman or heretic: it does not matter which you are, you know this to be true. I do not make the path. I am only here to see which path you choose to follow.”

 _“You can make it stop!”_ she snapped back. She was too far gone within her agony to consider the wisdom of arguing. Far away, her husband and the physician were huddled around her spread legs, coaxing and imploring, all their words falling on deaf ears. She thrashed against the mattress and the nothingness. “You said this is ‘your time,’ your greatest moment of sway in the world! They… the Abbey says you are at your strongest at this moment, able to influence… to…”

“To intervene?” The voice chuckled low, sending a shockwave shuddering through her very essence; in another world, those gathered around the bed smiled anxiously at her progress. “Oh, poor fool. I do not deny that I dip my fingers into the water of your reality from time to time to leave my mark on its rippling surface… but only when there is something – some _one_ – interesting enough to make the getting wet worth my while. And while there are some fascinating events surrounding this locus on the horizon, _you,_ my dear, will not have any part in them. So why should I give you my favor?”

“I don’t want your favor, your… _patronage_! I want… I _need_ … I need my child _free_. Free from the taint of this time.” She felt hands at her hips, her thighs, and she kicked wildly against them, clawing at the sheets. She bared her teeth now, haughty and imperious. “I am the wife of the Emperor of the Isles, the most powerful man in the world. And my child – our child – our firstborn is heir to the throne. And I cannot – I _will_ not – allow my firstborn to be condemned as an… as some unclean Fugue-born _beast_!”

There was silence, for a breath, for a lifetime.

“How demanding you are,” the presence finally said, his voice bitter, dark, cold. “How perfectly… _aristocratic_.” He made a derisive noise that cracked like the fracturing of an ice floe in the Tyvian seas. Beatrix felt her body stiffen at the tone, her mind freezing in shock at the sudden mortal terror that coursed through her veins. “You rather scorn the Fugue for all you plead of me to make use of it for your sake. But every year, it is the same. Your people make so much of these scant few hours. For most, it is a blessing, a time of release for the darkest desires of the soul, a time to cleanse and purge through the most disgusting of flagrant excess. But, _oh_ , the very _worst_ of all curses, the direst of signs and portents, to be brought into the world during this unrecorded time! A blight, a _plague_ upon the very soul! Poor Fugue-born babe: so much better to have never been born at all…”

Sweat from fever and sweat from chill had beaded up on Beatrix’s brow. She could feel it trickle down her face, could feel things happening and moving forward through the torture and the muddle of confusion. “Is it not so?” she cried, wrenching her head to the side, the bone charm digging deep into her neck. “I’ve heard the tales. It’s not just the Abbey, not just superstition. Darkness follows them, all the days of their lives. Bad fortune, ill luck, dark magic… even _madness_. For the Void is in them, leaks into their bodies, their minds, their spirits, as they cross over into the world. Is it… is it not so?”

And the voice coolly answered, “It is.”

“Then, please,” Beatrix whispered. “Please. For the sake… for the sake of the Empire. _Do not allow my child to be born during the Fugue!_ ”

In the sudden stillness and silence of the vast shattered blue, the frenzied reality of her bedroom seemed to slow and solidify, the sights and sounds growing less jumbled, more concrete. But as she peered blurrily up at her husband and the physician, and the small, pale thing lying in Calloway’s cupped palms, her thoughts only grew more perplexed and disjointed.

She stared at the tiny, motionless thing – the thin fleshy cord still binding it to her – and did not understand.

“Oh, my dear Beatrix,” the Outsider crooned in her ear. “Didn’t you know? It is already too late. It was _always_ too late. Your child’s soul – your daughter’s soul – was always going to be half alive in the world, half lost in the Void. She was always going to be Fugue-born. She was always going to be _half-mine.”_

Beatrix stared. In the physician’s cradling hands, the little infant girl was gray and silent and still.

No heart beat within the tiny chest.

“But you agreed, did you not, Beatrix? To be Fugue-born is to be condemned for all eternity.” The deity sighed, light as a breeze across the sea. “Ah, what a blessing for your daughter, then, to never have to endure such a tainted existence. It is… all for the best.”

“No.” Beatrix stared. Far away, a throbbing pain still wracked her worn body, Calloway’s head was bowed in defeat, and tears were falling from Euhorn’s bright blue eyes and sliding down the noble planes of his face. “No,” she whispered again. “That’s not… That’s not what I wanted. That’s not what I meant! I–”

“Oh, if only you _knew_ how often I hear those words!” the Outsider suddenly cried, not angry, but oddly entertained. “They draw circles in the dirt with the blood of animals, the blood of their enemies – or their friends. They burn filthy offerings and chant nonsense in languages they do not understand and they shout for what they think they want: for love, for coin, for authority, for revenge. To most of this I pay no heed, but if I do – if they get what they _really_ demand – _oh_ , how they cry! _‘This is not what I wanted! This is not what I meant!’_ Such odd, strange creatures you are!”

“I didn’t… I just wanted…” Beatrix kept her burning eyes locked on the tiny girl, willing the soft little limbs to move, to twitch, to show any sign of life. They remained still. “Oh, please. I just wanted the child… I just wanted her to be safe. To be happy and healthy and _free_. Please don’t… Don’t take her away…”

“ _Oh_?”

“Don’t take her away…” She could feel what little strength she had left begin to drain from her body. Thorny tendrils of despair had crept upon her and they clung to her now, wrapping around her chest and constricting until she could hardly draw breath. “I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t matter. Fugue-born or not, she’s my child! She’s my firstborn!” Beatrix gasped raggedly, trembling with effort, as her mind raced. “She’s the heir to the throne! If you care nothing for my grief, or my husband’s, consider what you are doing to… to the _path_. The path of the Empire. The path of _history_. Surely… surely the choices of an emperor’s firstborn shape the world in a million interesting ways. Would you destroy so many possibilities by not intervening?”

“Do I not destroy just as many by intervening now?” the Outsider countered, but Beatrix felt her wretched soul begin to lift, for his tone was now tinged with a distinct drop of curiosity _._

“You said…” she replied, thinking as fast as she was able, “You said that something was coming – something ‘fascinating.’ Something I will not be a part of it… but what about my daughter?”

She shuddered and closed her eyes to the sight of the motionless child and the vast blue nothing. It was the most perilous gamble she had ever taken, to bet all on her feeble understanding of the nature of reality and the deity who spoke through the whalebone charm into her ear.

But it was all she had left, so she took it.

“If she… if she _lives_ … could she not have a role in these events to come? Could her life, her choices, not make a great difference?” Her hands tightened on the wrinkled sheets and she hissed through clenched teeth. “As… as a Fugue-born heir to the throne… could she not lead this world on a most _interesting, fascinating path?_ ”

Time itself seemed to grind to a shuddering halt, both realities growing dull and gray as all existence seemed to contract. And she felt the infinite, incalculable mind behind that young man’s voice begin to _think._ The bone charm sang its tempestuous, groaning song and she felt him consider her words, weigh like coins on a barrister’s scale the ramifications of listening to and ignoring her plea. She felt him filter through a thousand, a million, a billion vague, distant possibilities, skim through them as one might shuffle an infinite deck of cards, the tableaus too fast for her to form any impressions at all this time. As still as a statue carved of marble, she lay in her bed and waited through a frozen eternity.

Then the Outsider spoke, smooth and lilting and calm.

“If I do what you ask of me, Beatrix Blayne Kaldwin, what gift will you give me in return? What price will you pay for the life of your firstborn?”

“Anything.” She replied without hesitation. “Anything I can give. Anything at all.”

“I will not demand my tribute now,” the Outsider murmured, low and sweet. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But do not forget:  I _will_ have my tithe… with _interest_.”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

“And your daughter: she is Fugue-born – body, mind, and soul – and thus marked she shall remain. Her very _heart_ is half-mine, as it was always meant to be. Do you understand and accept the gift that I offer you, my dear Beatrix?”

“… _I do_.”

The Outsider hummed silkily, intimately, in her ear. “Then I look forward to seeing how the paths you have opened up _unwind_.”

And the presence at her back disappeared.

Time resumed with a jolting start, color and light flooding back into existence, and she flailed, gasping hungrily for breath. The physical world sharpened into focus and she was bombarded with sensations: the muggy feel of damp cloth stuck to her skin, the cloying taste of blood on her bitten tongue, the fetid stink of sweat and bodily fluids. And there was the pain, throbbing within the empty cavity of her body, the corporeal agony of loss. She sucked in another desperate breath.

The boundless sea of blue sky was far beyond her mind’s grasp now, the split between the two realities no longer navigable with the return of her sanity. The bone charm inside her pillowcase was nothing more than a plain, inanimate object carved by ordinary human hands.

In the silence of the bedroom, the baby girl began to cry.

Beatrix stared mutely at the tiny infant cupped in Calloway’s palms and watched as she wiggled in his grasp, small perfectly-formed legs kicking and chubby hands grasping at the air. A pink flush had risen to the pale skin as the girl began to wail and Beatrix watched as Euhorn smiled the widest, happiest smile she had ever seen, tears still streaming down his face and gathering in the golden hair of his mustache. The Royal Physician was so frozen in disbelief that the servants, loudly rejoicing, had to fetch the gold-trimmed baby blanket and wrap the infant in it themselves. And Beatrix watched in silence as her husband held their daughter in his trembling arms for the first time, rocking her gently back and forth as he shushed and hummed to quiet her wild tears.

It was only when Euhorn placed the babe carefully into her arms and she felt the fragile heart fluttering within the tiny chest that the truth of what had occurred finally sunk in. Beatrix gazed at the child in stricken wonder. She saw her own sable hair in the thin black fluff strewn across the little head and Euhorn’s bright blue eyes in the tiny orbs peering innocently back up at her. But the mole above the left side of the child’s lips – a small, black mark, perfectly formed – seemed to signal the legacy of another. 

This is our child, she thought as silent tears began to course down her cheeks. This is our daughter, our firstborn. This is the heir to the Empire of the Isles.

This is my strange Fugue-born child, whose heart and soul are not all her own, whose life I bought at a price I do not know and can never pay.

Beatrix clutched the contentedly gurgling bundle to her chest and sobbed until her strength finally gave out and she sank gratefully into the silent, black oblivion of unconsciousness.

When the Abbey bells began to toll two hours later, signaling the end of the Fugue and the dawn of 1805, Beatrix did not notice.

 

<<<<–O–>>>>

 

She slept the rest of the day, all through the next, and late into the one after, unaware of the increasingly nervous bustle that surrounding her and the newborn child.

She did not know that Calloway and the three servants were kept cloistered in the royal suite by the Emperor’s command, that only the Royal Protector was not forbidden from leaving or interacting with anyone else. She remained unconscious as Euhorn consulted carefully with Spymaster Ogden and with a variety of texts in his office’s private library, pulling from tomes on law, theology, folk tales, natural philosophy, and cosmology. She did not hear the anxious, circular debates held between her husband and the physician at the foot of her bed, nor the small gasp of surprise from the head housekeeper as Euhorn asked desperately for her own opinion. She slept through his swearing of Calloway, Reese, Ogden, and each servant to secrecy, one at a time, with one hand resting on the cover of the Kaldwins’ own heirloom copy of _Litany on the White Cliff._ And she was completely oblivious to the uncertain scratch of a pen against thick, cream-colored paper.

When Beatrix finally stirred into wakefulness on the third day, the sun was sinking in a blaze of lavender-and-saffron outside the open window.

Euhorn was once more by her side. He sat on the edge of their bed, and as she rubbed at her blurry eyes, he spoke quietly and efficiently about what had transpired during her long sleep. Beatrix listened in silence, eyes fixed on the fresh blanket draped across her lap, and, after a moment of hesitation, nodded when asked if she agreed with his assessment and decisions. He embraced her, and though she was not yet up to returning the gesture, she allowed him to place a solemn but loving kiss on her forehead.

Later, after she had managed to freshen up and keep down a light supper, Beatrix sat in bed with her infant daughter tucked in the crook of one arm and a piece of parchment in her other hand. She held the document up to the light of her bedside lantern.

There it was, stamped with the official Kaldwin seal, signed by the presiding physician and witnessed by three of their staff. It had been drafted by Euhorn’s own hand; she would have known his clear, careful script anywhere. There was their daughter’s beautiful name, taken from the flowers blooming in the garden where she and Euhorn had first met, a chance encounter years ago at a springtime party held by the Brimsleys. And there were the names of both her parents, her place of birth, and…

“‘This document,’” she read aloud to her sleeping child, “‘certifies that Jessamine Kaldwin’ – that’s _you_ , little one – ‘was born to Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin and Beatrix Blayne Kaldwin in the Tower of Dunwall in Dunwall, Gristol, at…’”

Beatrix turned her gaze towards the window, now blackened by the night sky.

“‘…at Seven o’clock in the Evening on… on the Third Day of the Month of Earth… in the Year of Eighteen Hundred and Five.’”

She laid the perjurious birth certificate down on the blanket and shuffled her grip, resting Jessamine’s head carefully against her shoulder. A little hand curled sleepily around a lock of her mother’s hair, dark as the mark on the child’s pale face.

“Tomorrow, when we present you to the people of this city,” Beatrix murmured in her ear, “remember that all of this thing called living is _very_ new to you:  you were only born this evening. Understand, Jessamine? Your father’s right. It is such a small sin against the Second, and only for your protection. Even if… even if it does not change the truth.”

 

<<<<–O–>>>>

 

It was only months later, when she happened upon a familiar three-pronged form concealed in a drawstring bag in a locked drawer, that Beatrix realized she had no memory of removing the bone charm from her pillowcase.

 

 


	2. 9th Day, Month of Hearths, 1809

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written between September 24, 2014 and January 9, 2015.

“…And so Headmaster Jardine assured me that such blasphemous experiments would never again be conducted under the Academy’s roof,” High Overseer Pierson concluded with a self-satisfied, confidential smile. “Not while he runs the place, anyway.” The man leaned back into his chair, arms draped over the armrests and legs crossed casually. His heavy clerical coat was a scarlet stain against the mahogany wood and pale teal upholstery.

Euhorn returned the smile automatically. He could have sworn he had heard some noise outside his office and was listening as best he could now, eyes straying occasionally towards the closed door. He was completely engaged for the day, his schedule overloaded with advisory meetings, individual petitions from citizens, and a Parliamentary session that evening. He made himself relax, taking another smooth drag from his Cullero cigar. If there was any kind of disturbance, he knew his Royal Protector, standing just outside the room, would be able to handle it.

“How go your plans for the, uh, the City Guard, Your Majesty?” Pierson suddenly asked. Euhorn turned his attention back to the man, laying the cigar down across his ashtray and folding his arms across his paper-strewn desk.

“‘The City Watch,’” Euhorn noted.

The High Overseer nodded. “Yes, yes, the City Watch. I have heard great things about your goals for this venture, Your Majesty, many great things. Spirits know we at the Abbey could use the assistance of a dedicated local patrol force. With no disrespect to your soldiers and navy men,” Pierson demurred, and Euhorn waved away any notion of offense, “their particular brand of… _military might_ has never been well-suited to the task of dealing with city matters: petty crime and gang wars and the like. And, of course, it is not the Abbey’s place to step in unless heresy or witchcraft is involved…”

“Oh, most certainly,” Euhorn replied. “I’ve high hopes for the City Watch as well. Recruiting is already in full swing – I’m sure you’ve seen the posters, yes? – and fortunately, I’ve been able to persuade several of my most innovative, experienced military officers to serve as captains for the initial squads, one per district to start out. If all continues on as planned, the City Watch should be up and running by the beginning of Timber.”

“Splendid, splendid.” Just as Pierson reached for his drink on the side table, a discreet knock caught both of their attentions. Euhorn turned his gaze back to the door, Pierson half turning in his seat to catch a glimpse of it himself.

“Yes?” Euhorn called out, pitching his voice louder, and Royal Protector Reese opened the door, stepping halfway inside.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty – High Overseer – but your daughter wishes to see you now.”

Euhorn huffed into his mustache; it was very hard not to smile at Reese’s serious expression. “Is that so?” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Is she not supposed to be with her governess right now, working on her reading and sums?”

“Yes, sir,” Reese replied diligently, “but it seems Lady Jessamine insisted upon a bit of a break. She-” His graying head retreated for a moment, and Euhorn could hear the low murmur of whispered discussion from the hallway before he appeared once more. “She says that she knows you are busy today, sir, but that she thought she could keep you company while you work. She promises to be quiet,” he added quickly, “and has brought drawing materials with her.”

“I see,” Euhorn replied, casting an amused glance at Pierson. The High Overseer nodded, though his smile grew strained. He took a quick sip of his drink. Euhorn settled back in his seat, tenting his fingers together. “Well, in that case, do show Lady Jessamine in.”

Reese bobbed his head, then opened the door wide, standing back as the small figure of the emperor’s four-year-old daughter pranced into the office.

Dressed in a frilly, short frock of pale teal and lace-trimmed white pantaloons, Lady Jessamine was a bright spot of fresh sunlight in the darkly-colored room. She grinned widely at her father, her blue eyes – the same brilliant shade as Euhorn’s – twinkling with barely suppressed mischief. He watched in amusement as her tiny arms struggled to maintain her tenuous hold on an oversized drawing pad and wooden box of coloring pencils. As she trotted towards him, her long black hair, braided into its usual thick plait, swung like a pendulum, skimming against her back in rhythm to her steps.

When she noticed High Overseer Pierson, the little girl slowed and ducked her head, eyes averting as she smiled shyly at the floor. Euhorn chuckled, holding his arms out to her, and she slipped quickly around the desk into his embrace and buried her face into his suit coat. He hugged her and her bundle awkwardly over the armrest.

“Good morning, Jessamine,” Euhorn said, smiling warmly as she peeked up at him.

“‘Morning, Father.”

“And aren’t you going to greet the High Overseer as well, my dear?” he added, turning her gently by her shoulders to face the man across the desk.

“‘Morning, High Overseer.”

“Good morning, Lady Jessamine,” Pierson said. He tipped his drink towards her in salute.

“Now what’s this the Lord Protector was telling me about you needing a break, hm?” Euhorn asked. “Not trying to get out of working on your sums, are you?”

“ _Nooooo_ ,” the little girl drawled, but when Pierson raised an eyebrow at this, she seemed to think better of lying so obviously in the High Overseer’s presence. “Sums are _boring_ ,” she groused, shoulders hunched in childish indignation. “Drawing’s more fun, and I do it better.”

Euhorn laughed and ruffled her neat hair, earning himself an unimpressed stare. “Well, perhaps if you practiced your sums more often, rather than sneaking away from poor Governess Pilson, you would improve at them! What do you think of that?”

“… _Maybe_ ,” Jessamine finally acquiesced, though she did not appear entirely convinced. “I’d still rather do more drawing.”

“Well, drawing can certainly be a fine diversion, my lady,” Pierson interjected. He smiled with a particular benevolence that Euhorn had always felt was somehow more habitual than genuinely felt. “A fine accomplishment for a young lady of your stature. Such an elevated activity can provide an excellent time for reflection upon one’s moral integrity, and upon one’s place in society and the Cosmos.”

Euhorn watched his daughter squint at Pierson. He could almost see the cogs turning in her head as she tried to parse out the High Overseer’s lofty language.

He had no doubt she would be able to, either. He and Beatrix had realized early on that Jessamine was, in a word, _gifted_. _S_ he had accomplished most of her developmental milestones significantly earlier than her peers, had recognized the written word and had spoken – in complete sentences – much earlier than was expected. Such was why Euhorn had already insisted on hiring a governess and why, despite her personal aversion to mathematics, the girl was already working on sums at four years of age. Jessamine was smart as a whip, and as she was not simply another aristocratic young lady but the heir to the throne, Euhorn saw no reason to not begin preparing his daughter for her future role as empress.

Jessamine gazed at the High Overseer thoughtfully. “I like to draw people,” she finally replied. “And animals. And things that I see.”

Pierson’s smile had grown even more drawn. His foot tapped impatiently at the air. “All fine subjects, I would think. If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Jessamine, would you be willing to do a small favor for me?” The little girl tilted her head, curious. “Would you do me the great honor of composing for me a sketch – of anything you’d like – while your father and I finish our discussion? I know my two nieces would _love_ to see a display of your artistic talent.”

“Do they like to draw, too?” Jessamine asked, eyes wide, hugging her pad and pencil box tightly.

“I’m afraid not,” Pierson apologized, still smiling. “The youngest is most interested in needlework, and the eldest in music.” He glanced up at Euhorn and added wryly, “My sister insisted on harpsichord lessons. Said it was what her husband – bless his departed soul – would have wanted. It’s quite a suitable instrument for a young girl, of course, though not so pleasant to the ear when the player is still learning the ropes.”

Euhorn chuckled politely. As Pierson took another drink, Euhorn leaned down to his daughter. “Draw something for the High Overseer, won’t you, my dear?” he murmured quietly in her ear. “I might be less inclined to send you right back to Governess Pilson to do _extra_ sums.” He winked at her even as she pursed her little lips and looked at him askance.

“All right, Father,” Jessamine finally acquiesced with a sigh. Euhorn watched as, after a brief moment of consideration, she settled herself on the floor a little ways away from his desk, arranging herself cross-legged on the plush Tyvian rug with her skirts flared wide around her in a frilly circle. She propped her drawing pad up in her lap, flipping through many color-filled pages before arriving at a blank one, then opened the box at her side and began to sort through her pencils.

“Now, about the City Watch,” Pierson prompted, and Euhorn turned his attention back to the man. “I know you are currently recruiting from Dunwall’s general populace, but – correct me if I’m wrong – surely you have drawn up some standards for assessment and evaluation, yes? Despite the secular nature of such a force, I hope that your new Watch and my Overseers will be able to, well, share a friendly comradery, and assist each other whenever possible.”

“Of course,” Euhorn replied calmly, knowing where Pierson was headed with his roundabout speech. “My Watch captains are well aware of what to look for in a recruit, and what signs of possible… moral failings or inclinations to watch out for as well.”

“Excellent.” Pierson looked pleased. “Might I suggest, Your Majesty, that you consider our Trials of Aptitude as a model of how you may best achieve an accurate evaluation of a recruit’s potential? Now, back when I served at Whitecliff…”

As the High Overseer rambled on about undercover surveillance and character appraisals, Euhorn nodded and jotted down a few relevant notes. Every minute or so, however, he found his gaze straying towards his daughter. First he looked in curiosity, then with a stirring of apprehensive concern.

Wondering what subject she would choose to draw for the High Overseer, Euhorn at first assumed Jessamine was drawing a portrait of Pierson, for whenever he checked on her, her blue eyes were turned up towards the man in the scarlet clerical coat as if to memorize his features before replicating them on paper. Several minutes later, however, he realized that the surface of her drawing pad remained conspicuously blank, the pencils sitting unused in their box. As Pierson continued on obliviously with his spiel, Euhorn chanced a longer glance and felt a queasy sort of uneasiness churn in his stomach.

Jessamine was not just looking at the High Overseer. She was staring at him strangely, with eyes intent and unblinking, quiet and still. There was something dark in her bright blue eyes, he thought, a gleam of something knowing, something odd and curious and judging. Her stare seemed to measure Pierson the way the barristers measured coin upon a scale, a penetrating arbitration not of the man’s appearance but of something much deeper below the surface. Jessamine stared at the High Overseer and Euhorn covertly clutched the ends of his armrests in white-knuckled grips.

He had seen this strange look in his daughter’s eyes before.

“…Your Majesty?” Pierson questioned and Euhorn, plastering on a calm smile he did not feel, nodded for him to continue. As their talk turned from the City Watch to the state of his overseers’ missions in Morley to the ongoing renovations in Holger Square, Euhorn forced himself to focus on Pierson and not on his little girl. After a while, his ears picked up a shuffling noise and the soft _scritch scritch_ of pencils on paper, but he did not dare look to see what she was drawing. A half-conscious desire to lure the High Overseer’s attention away from Jessamine kept him smiling and listening and conversing with rapt concentration.

Eventually, however, the conversation began to wind down and turned back to the subject of children.

“Now Felicity is quite the good girl – honest, hard-working, mild – but little Haley still has her piques of temper from time to time. My sister’s working on it with her, though, several recitations and prayers every day, and she’s come a long way in a few short months, spirits bless her.” Pierson smirked and nodded towards Jessamine, who glanced up warily from her drawing at his pause. “Seems to me you have a bit of a rebel yourself here, Your Majesty, slipping away from her governess like that. I know she is only four, but as the Abbey’s emissary, I would encourage you to begin instilling in her now the importance of restricting the Roving Feet.”

“My feet don’t _rove_ ,” Jessamine piped up, indignant and firm, before Euhorn could respond. “I never leave the Tower, and the Tower is my home, so it’s not trespassing!”

The High Overseer’s eyes grew wide. Then he chuckled. “True enough, my lady. I am glad to hear your parents have begun your instruction in the Strictures as well as in sums.”

“Beatrix and I know how important early indoctrination is,” Euhorn murmured respectfully. “We of course want Jessamine to be raised with the Strictures, as is befitting a royal heir.”

“I never doubted it for a moment, Your Majesty. The Abbey greatly appreciates the example you and your family set for the people of Dunwall and all the Isles. It is truly encouraging to have such a good, pious man guiding our great Empire.”

Euhorn shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “And I am grateful your overseers have such a faithful leader to guide them as well,” he replied, cautiously but honestly. For all of his exaggerated smiles and obvious political agendas, Pierson was as respectable, virtuous, and honorable a man as one could expect to find in the office of High Overseer. Though severe in his condemnation of witchcraft and dark worship, his reputation as a caring elder brother and generous uncle had ingratiated him with a populace who seemed to find most celibate overseers cold and unrelatable. And unlike several of his Parliamentarians – Lord Prismall and Lord Boyle immediately came to mind – Euhorn actually liked Pierson and felt him worthy of his high position.

“You are too kind, too kind.” Despite the praise, Pierson’s eyes quickly slid back to Jessamine, who gazed back with a rather resentful expression, drawing pad clutched tightly to her chest. “Now, before I take my leave, Lady Jessamine, I wonder if you might be able to recite for me the names of the Seven Strictures?”

“Why?” Jessamine promptly retorted. “Did you forget them?”

Euhorn twitched in shock at this unexpected sauciness, but Pierson only laughed. “I pray for mercy for your court someday, my lady; they will have their hands full with you. But I merely asked as a sort of test, a bit of a challenge to show off what you have learned so far.”

To Euhorn’s relief, Jessamine immediately began to recite the Strictures, speeding through them with the same memorized rhythm as one recounting the thirteen months or the districts of Dunwall. He relaxed as she spoke them all correctly and in order, despite the awkwardness of hearing his four-year-old obliviously pronounce ‘Wanton Flesh.’

“Well done, my lady,” Pierson extolled. “You are indeed a smart one. You wouldn’t believe how many people my age can’t even manage that.” The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour and Euhorn quickly glanced at its face, then at the schedule of appointments on his desk. Pierson stirred in his chair. “Ah, I’ve kept you too long, Your Majesty. My apologies.”

“Not to worry; I’ve a few minutes until my next meeting.” Nevertheless, Euhorn pushed away from his desk and stood up, the High Overseer quickly following his lead. Jessamine took a little longer to clamber to her feet, brushing down her frilly skirts and clutching her drawing pad close as she did, but Euhorn was proud she had remembered her etiquette. “I’m glad we had this chance to catch up, High Overseer,” he said, clasping Pierson’s hand in a polite handshake. “I’ll keep in mind your suggestions for the City Watch.”

“Thank you for your time.” Pierson hooked his thumbs in the loops of his belt. “I look forward to collaborating with your new officers in the future. And a pleasure to see you again, Lady Jessamine,” he added, dipping his head to her. He gestured towards her drawing pad. “Were you able to finish your drawing in time? I should like to see it.”

Jessamine nodded. “Mmhmm. Here.” Euhorn watched as she fumblingly tore out the page she had been working on and set the sketchbook down on the floor. She went to Pierson’s side, holding up the paper as the man leaned down over her shoulder to take a look. From his place behind the desk, Euhorn could not see what she had drawn. He began to slowly make his way around the corner, keeping his expression neutral and calm.

After a moment, Pierson said, “Ah, how excellent, my lady!” with the polite exaggeration often reserved for the small accomplishments of children. “You show great artistic promise for someone your age. That right there is a wolfhound, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, pointing at something on the paper.

“Of course,” Jessamine replied, and Euhorn breathed out in relief. A wolfhound. That was fine, perfectly safe; the subject was especially appropriate for an overseer, even. He should not have worried. Through all of her strange staring, Jessamine had merely been drawing the connection between the High Overseer and the wolfhound that belonged to Vice Overseer Thompson, the familiar figure who presided over the Tower’s private chapel. It was all right. Everything was fine.

“And another wolfhound as well,” Pierson added, pointing to another spot. “What sharp fangs you gave them; they look quite fierce. I would like such proud beasts as these patrolling with my overseers. Now… what are they doing there? Playing? Having a bit of a romp in the mud?”

“No,” Jessamine explained with strained patience. “They’re fighting.”

The High Overseer grew still. “…Fighting?”

“Yes, see?” Jessamine pointed at the page. “This one is about to bite the other one on the neck, and this one is going to try to bite the other’s leg. But he’s not going to be able to because he’s tired because they’ve been fighting for so long.” The little girl’s small face twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. “There was going to be more blood everywhere, but my red pencil broke and I couldn’t use it anymore.”

“ _Jessamine_ ,” Euhorn murmured, stepping quickly to her other side. He stared down at her drawing, then surreptitiously laid his hand on her shoulder.

Pierson had clearly been optimistic in suggesting that the two wolfhounds she had drawn were ‘playing.’ The brown beast’s front legs were reared up, exposing sharp triangle-shaped claws, and the black one – sporting a torn ear and one eye – was lunging forward underneath with clearly violent intent. The long, open jaws of both creatures were lined with giant zigzags of teeth spotted with red dots. The bottom of the page had been scribbled in with brown to create the ground, with vertical gray lines striping the rest of the page.

Though the image itself was not overly graphic, the fact that it had come from his four-year-old daughter’s mind sent a chill straight through his heart.

“That’s rather… _violent_ , don’t you think, my lady?” the High Overseer finally managed to say. Euhorn glanced up at him sharply. There was a peculiarly restrained expression on Pierson’s paling face that Euhorn had not expected to find there. Upon seeing the drawing, he had anticipated shock or outrage, stern disapproval at the least. Instead, Pierson seemed almost… afraid.

“Don’t you like it, High Overseer?” Jessamine asked, suddenly appearing confused. She stared up at the man, blue eyes growing wide. “I thought you’d like it. I made it just for you.”

“It is… certainly a nice rendering of wolfhounds,” Pierson managed, “though I would not dwell too long on thoughts of such a… ferocious nature, if I were you, my lady. I would hate for such to lead you down the wrong path into an Errant Mind.”

“Oh.” Euhorn watched Jessamine inspect her drawing again. “All right,” she finally agreed. “That would be bad. Just like Wandering Gaze… right, High Overseer?”

Pierson’s face had completely drained of color, and to Euhorn’s surprise, the man now glanced nervously up at _him_. “That... that’s right,” Pierson stuttered. Euhorn stared back, brow furrowed in uncertainty and a hint of rising suspicion.

“Here you go,” Jessamine said. She slid the drawing into the High Overseer’s unresponsive hands before Euhorn could snatch it away. “I hope the girls like it, High Overseer. Tell them I said hello. Maybe they can come and play with me sometime?”

“I… I will pass on your greeting to them, Lady Jessamine.” Pierson straightened and backed away, holding the paper to his chest, the scribbled drawing hidden against his scarlet coat. Bowing respectfully to the emperor, he murmured a halting, “Good day… Your Majesty.” Euhorn nodded and watched as Reese opened the door for him and Pierson quickly slipped out of the office.

In the moment of silence that followed, Euhorn stared at the mahogany door and listened to the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock, lost in uneasy contemplation.

Eventually, Jessamine began to squirm beneath his grasp. “Ow, that hurts, Father,” she whined, and he quickly released her shoulder. He took her small hands in his large ones instead, kneeling down to her level and forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Jessamine, why did you draw that?”

A cross expression came upon her delicate features. “Draw what?” she murmured sulkily.

He had seen just such an expression many times before on Beatrix’s face. Euhorn gave his daughter a little shake, trying to retain her attention, and Jessamine stared back with blue eyes wide in shock. “Listen to me, this is important!” he said, keeping his voice low. “Why did you draw those wolfhounds for the High Overseer?”

She swallowed, glancing away. “I… I thought he would like wolfhounds… They have them at the Abbey…”

“Don’t lie to me, Jessamine.” He forced her to look at him again and she whimpered. “I’m not trying to scare you, darling,” he insisted. He cupped her cheek in one hand. “I just need to know. Why did you draw the wolfhounds fighting? Tell me, what was going on in that drawing?”

“They’re supposed to fight each other,” Jessamine said. She clutched onto the end of his coat sleeve with curling fingers. “They have to, or the men get mad and hit them with sticks or don’t feed them any supper. And they would run away, but they can’t, because they’re in a cage all the time, so the people can come and watch them fight."

Euhorn felt his stomach clench in recognition. _Hound fighting_. She was talking about hound fighting, a sport that had long been popular amongst certain citizens of Dunwall, a pastime favored by gamblers and those with a particular thirst for blood. Though the idea of locking two beasts in a cage and forcing them to fight – sometimes to the death – was not a pleasant one to Euhorn, the sport was not illegal and many taverns, pubs, and clubs throughout the city promoted their weekly matches in an attempt to draw in paying customers. Such rough, violent, and dirty establishments were not, however, an appropriate place for aristocratic gentlemen or ladies to be seen.

Nor were they suitable venues for men in high offices, particularly those tasked with encouraging moral values in the Empire’s population.

Euhorn struggled to remain calm. “And why did you think the High Overseer would like a drawing like that?”

“He likes to watch them fight.” Jessamine continued to fiddle with his sleeve, running her fingers over the elaborate stitching. “He goes down to the docks some nights. That’s when he doesn’t wear his red coat. And he gives the men coins and watches the wolfhounds fight. There’s a lot of people there, and it’s dark and loud and it smells real bad. And sometimes he gets coins back and he’s happy, and sometimes he doesn’t, and that makes him mad. But he just gives them more coins then, and keeps shouting and watching with the other people.” She chanced a glanced up at Euhorn’s face, leaning her cheek into his palm. “His favorite wolfhound is named Jacko.”

“Oh, Jessamine,” Euhorn murmured. He absently smoothed loose wisps of her hair behind her ears. He dreaded it, having already seen the darkness that had lurked behind her eyes, but he made himself ask it all the same. “Darling, please tell me. How do you know these things, about the hound fighting and the coins and… and the High Overseer?"

Jessamine gazed back at him sadly. “I just do, Father. You know? When I looked at him, I saw all of those things, like I was there, too, and-”

A brusque knock came at the door and both Kaldwins looked up as Royal Protector Reese stuck his head inside. “Your Majesty, I apologize for the interruption, but the Morays have arrived. They’ll be here any minute. Do you want me to have them wait?”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Reese.” Euhorn struggled to his feet, brushing off the knees of his suit trousers. “Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Reese withdrew, Euhorn glanced back down at Jessamine. The little girl barely came up to his waist and she was staring up at him with such innocent eyes. Yet her troubling words about High Overseer Pierson only confirmed what he already knew and had known for some time now. 

There was something vast and ancient and infinitely _strange_ trapped inside that tiny frame.

The black intelligence that would occasionally come into Jessamine’s gaze and the hidden truths she would spout so inexplicably could not be justified by simple explanations of natural giftedness. Ever since she had learned to talk, moments such as this had begun to occur, and each instance had left Euhorn racked with grief, fear, and guilt. The terror surrounding the first days of Jessamine’s life four years before had never truly left him and the fraudulent date he had recorded on her birth certificate haunted him every day. Euhorn’s faith in the Strictures was solid and true and to go about breaking the Second every moment he drew breath – and about something so critically important – weighed him down like the heaviest of iron anchors.

Being born during the Fugue was no minor matter, after all. The Abbey had long declared such children cursed, tainted by black magic, and unfit to exist, even going so far as to call them inhuman and soulless. And though Euhorn had privately supposed this reaction a bit overblown, the fact was that the Abbey did not suffer the Fugue-born to live and would send out specially-trained overseers every Fugue Feast to search for and properly deal with such unfortunate, heretical births. That Pierson had not been present for Jessamine’s birth – that he had been on a short sabbatical in Whitecliff at the time – had merely been a fluke. Though she was the firstborn child of an emperor, Euhorn was certain the High Overseer would have tolerated no exceptions, and had he objected, the resulting clash between the royal military and the Abbey might have torn the empire apart. For as strong as Euhorn’s own faith was, upon becoming a father, he had discovered that infinitely more important to him was the health, safety, and life of his daughter.

His unconditional love for her could not, however, fully wipe away the terror he felt when Jessamine looked back at him with eyes reflecting the Void.

“…Are you mad at me, Father?” she asked timidly, tiny fingers picking uncertainly at the long, black plait of her braided hair.

Euhorn sighed and frowned. He rubbed a broad hand gently across the back of her shoulders and felt the tension slowly ease from her. “No, I’m not mad. I am glad you told me what you… what you saw about the High Overseer. Thank you for sharing that with me.” He was not truly glad to have learned of this particular vice of Pierson’s – was such considered part of Wandering Gaze, as she had seemed to innocently mention? – but after nearly six years of imperial reign, Euhorn had learned it was usually better to know the worst of his peers than to remain ignorant of such iniquities. He squeezed her shoulder lightly in reassurance. “We need to talk, however, about your–”

The office door opened and Euhorn straightened up, quickly plastering on an interested and engaged expression as Reese beckoned two figures into the room and announced, “Your Majesty, Lord Preston Moray and Lady Vera Moray.”

“Good morning,” Euhorn greeted them affably as husband and wife made their way to him, the thump of the man’s walking cane muffled on the Tyvian rug. They bowed deferentially to their emperor, and Euhorn grasped the lord’s rough palm in his own and gave it a sturdy shake. “Lord Preston.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Preston murmured with a worn smile and another subservient bob of his head. Though Euhorn had once attended many of the famously extravagant dinner parties held at Moray Manor, he had only glimpsed the Morays once in passing since they had returned from their two-year-long expedition to Pandyssia the year before. All correspondence concerning further government funding and the importation of exotic wares had been by letter and, for reasons unknown to the wildly curious aristocracy, the number of parties the Morays hosted had now dwindled down to only a handful. Taking in Preston’s graying, thinning hair and red-rimmed eyes squinting behind newly-acquired spectacles, Euhorn thought he could tell why. The lord had once been sturdy, robust, and considered quite handsome amongst the noblewomen of Dunwall. Though Euhorn figured Preston was only in his early fifties at most, age and the strain of the long voyages to and from the Far Continent had not been kind to the man.

Euhorn shifted his gaze to the wife, who had come to stand with regal demeanor beside her husband rather than behind. “Lady Vera,” he acknowledged. From their previous interactions years before, Euhorn thought he knew what to expect and was unsurprised when she held out her slim hand, clad in a soft ox-skin glove, for him to shake as well. He did, and she smiled almost coyly, dark brown eyes glittering.

“Your Majesty,” she purred. Though Vera’s once-legendary beauty had also mellowed, time and travel seemed to have only strengthened her, restoring and invigorating her feminine frame. While Preston had come to petition the crown in a simple, stately uniform of forest green, Vera was bedecked as if she was on her way to the grandest ball of the season. Her long indigo overcoat was trimmed in exotic furs and elaborately embroidered so that it glittered like a night sky full of gilded stars. A wide-brimmed Mortimer hat framed her noble face, a gold plume from some foreign bird cascading from the silk hatband. Beneath her high-heeled boots, Vera wore a pair of dark specially-tailored trousers, a fashion she had single-handedly pioneered; though Euhorn supposed she had dispensed with enveloping skirts for the sake of convenience in all her travels, trousers for ladies had since spread like wildfire amongst Dunwall’s elite. Jewels sparkled at her ears like droplets of captured fire, and though Euhorn wondered fleetingly if the cosmetics she wore were responsible for the difference, Vera seemed somehow more awake and more alive than he had ever seen her before.

“How good to see both of you again after so long,” Euhorn said. “I trust you are well?”

“We are indeed, Your Majesty, thank you,” Lord Preston replied softly.

“Though perhaps not so well when it comes to the finances for our upcoming expedition,” Lady Vera added with unabashed amusement. “Hence our petition, of course.” Her husband’s eyes grew wide, his grip tightening on the knob of his cane, but Euhorn took her forwardness in stride.

“Of course,” he echoed, smiling pleasantly. “I supposed that to be the case when I received your letter. I am curious to hear more of your proposal for the funds. As I’m sure you’re aware, after that complete fiasco last year with that Tyvian painter of yours, Lady Vera, Parliamentary support for Pandyssian exploration has largely dried up.”

“Yes, poor dear Sokolov,” Lady Vera crooned, sounding troubled, though her eyes still glittered with laughter. “Such dreary luck.”

“The success of your own previous ventures, however, may turn their attitude around,” Euhorn acknowledged. “The Academy might even be amenable to…” He paused as he felt a small hand tug at the hem of his coat. He glanced down to find Jessamine pressed close to him, half hiding behind his legs as she gazed up at the Morays. “Ah, my apologies; you’ve not met my daughter Jessamine before, have you?” he said, guiding the reluctant girl out from behind him with a gentle hand.

“A great honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness. Truly a great honor.” Lord Preston bowed nearly as low to her as he had to the emperor.

Jessamine, however, seemed to have eyes only for his wife. She stared up at Lady Vera intently, unblinkingly, and Vera stared back, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow rising to her hairline in interest. A long moment passed as the two ladies seemed to size each other up and Euhorn felt the uneasiness return. The expression on Jessamine’s petite face gradually slid from mild suspicion to worry before settling resolutely on tight-lipped hostility.

Lady Vera only smiled. “Why, you’re a lovely little child, aren’t you, dearie?” she commended with a laugh.

“I like your brooch,” Jessamine suddenly said. Her words were a challenge, sarcastic, contemptuous, and haughty. Euhorn blinked, momentarily perplexed. Vera seemed surprised as well. Her gloved left hand rose elegantly to touch the ornamental cameo nestled at the base of her neck. Amongst all of the fur and finery, Euhorn hadn’t even noticed the small ivory-colored thing.

Lady Vera smirked, her lip curled in such a way that on anyone else it would have been a crude sneer. “A lovely little child with discerning taste,” she clarified.

“How old is she, Your Majesty?” Lord Preston asked Euhorn, apparently oblivious to the moment of tension.

“I’m four,” Jessamine piped up, abruptly all lighthearted and innocent charm. She held up four fingers proudly, as if Lord Preston might need the visual aid. The sudden reversal threw Euhorn off even more. His daughter hadn’t acted that childish in over a year now. She’s laying it on too thick, trying to compensate for that lapse, he thought numbly.

Lord Preston’s tired face broke into an adoring expression, however. He smiled softly down at her with more than a hint of wistfulness. “Are you now, Lady Jessamine? How delightful. Make sure you enjoy these years while they last, all right? And don’t grow up too fast! Take it from an old man like me, I should know.” The lord chortled kindly.

Jessamine’s grin relaxed into what Euhorn knew was her true smile. “Do _you_ have any children I could play with?” she inquired. “Maybe one who likes drawing?”

Lord Preston’s expression faltered. “I… I’m afraid not, Lady Jessamine,” he apologized, and Euhorn wished he could have stopped his daughter from asking. The lord reached out with his free hand for his wife’s and took it; it hung limply and uninterested in his grasp. “Vera and I were never blessed with children of our own.”

Jessamine made a small, surprised noise and seemed about to offer her own condolences when Lady Vera added lightly, “But the wilds of Pandyssia are no place for a child, so it’s all for the best.” If the look on her husband’s face was any indication, Euhorn didn’t think Lord Preston shared this particular viewpoint. “If Your Majesty is so inclined, might we present to you our proposal now?” Lady Vera caught Euhorn’s eye. “I know you must be busy, and I would hate to waste any more of your time.”

“You’ve been to _Pandyssia_?” Jessamine gasped, curiosity and awe momentarily overcoming her odd enmity.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Vera affirmed with relish, leaning down to Jessamine’s eye level, gloved hands on her knees. “All the way across the Great Ocean and back. Over the cliffs and through the caves, down the tributaries and into the jungles, where great beasts prowl and men are wild savages and the darkness walks among them. And if we can convince your father here to grant us assistance, we’re to do it again. What do you think of that?”

“It sounds exciting,” Jessamine admitted.

Lady Vera chuckled, the golden plume on her hat bobbing in agreement. “Indeed. We’ve discovered all manner of strange carvings and artifacts there. Shall I bring you one back for a present, dearie?”

Euhorn felt Jessamine’s small frame stiffen at his side. “No,” she said haltingly, polite and restrained. “No, thank you, Lady Moray.”

Lady Vera laughed and straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and hunching her shoulders so that her face was nearly buried in her coat’s thick fur trim. “Discerning taste _and_ a discerning mind.”

The flicker of unease had risen once more into a terrible, stomach-churning dread. Euhorn surreptitiously curled his fingers into the fabric of his trouser leg to brace himself; for some reason, harmless old eccentric Vera Moray’s interest in Jessamine felt even more ill-advised than the High Overseer’s had.

“Why don’t I send you on back to Governess Pilsen now, my dear?” he said to his daughter, who shot him a wide-eyed look of appalled betrayal. “You’ve had your little break, and you can’t hide from your lessons forever. Besides, it’s almost time for luncheon, is it not?”

“But _Father_ ,” Jessamine began to whine, but he quickly shushed her.

“Now, now, don’t be rude. I need to hear their petition. Gather your things and say goodbye to Lord and Lady Moray.”

Jessamine sighed but bent obediently to retrieve her sketchbook and pencil box, gathering them to her chest. “Good day, Lord Moray,” she recited with a small bob of her head. “Good day, Lady Moray.” 

“Yes, the same to you, dearie,” Lady Vera said, her painted mouth still seeming to laugh.

“A wonderful day to you, Lady Jessamine,” Lord Preston replied, bowing with a formal gesture once more. He smiled at her warmly, eyes peeking almost shyly through his round spectacles. “And again, it was a great pleasure to meet you.”

“If you’ll excuse me for one moment?” Euhorn began to guide the girl around the Morays, shepherding her towards the door. She followed with some reluctance. Her gaze had become fixed on Lord Moray’s kind face this time, her little brow furrowed with some sudden worry. As they passed the lord, Euhorn saw her impulsively reach out and lay her tiny hand over top of the man’s own where it gripped the knob of his walking cane.

“Lord Moray,” she whispered with peculiar urgency.

The lord’s eyes grew wide in confusion. “Lady Jessamine? What-”

_“Watch out for the witch!”_ the little girl hissed. Her voice was low and queer, tinged with a strange sort of melodiousness, and Euhorn felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and stand up. _“She’ll cut you up and carve your bones!”_

Jessamine’s bright blue eyes gleamed with lurking darkness.

For a moment, Euhorn, his daughter, and the lord and lady stood frozen in that tableau, suspended in time. Then Lady Vera began to laugh, high and trilling, left hand clasped over her heart in delight, and the moment dissolved. Jessamine’s small fingers dropped from Lord Preston’s, though she held his gaze with insistent seriousness.

“Your daughter’s heard all sorts of wild stories about the barbarity of Pandyssia, hasn’t she, Your Majesty?” Lady Vera said, smiling so widely Euhorn caught a glimpse of her white teeth.

Euhorn took the opening she had provided and ran with it. “Too many stories, it seems, and ghastly ones at that,” he said, trying to appear cheerful. He ruffled Jessamine’s hair. “I’ll have to tell Governess Pilsen to take more care with what she lets you read, my dear. I don’t want you to start having nightmares about such nonsense.”

He expected Jessamine to rebuff him, but she didn’t. She just stared at Lord Preston imploringly.

Lord Preston finally seemed to come back to himself. He smiled gently and said, “Not to worry, Lady Jessamine. I’ve faced worse than some Pandyssian witch on my journeys! Vera and I shall be fine.”

“Come along, Jessamine,” Euhorn said and finally herded her all of the way to the door. Reese opened it from the outside just as they arrived at the threshold.

“Sir?” Reese asked expectantly, taking the tiny hand that the emperor placed in his own.

“Take her back to Governess Pilsen,” Euhorn murmured in the Royal Protector’s ear so that Jessamine couldn’t hear. “And have Secretary Bradshaw clear my schedule for the rest of the day, after the Morays’ appointment. Even the session with Parliament. I… There is something on my mind, and I need some time to think.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more on this story, visit and follow strange-jessamine.tumblr.com


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